


The Hero's Gun

by StolenBlueBox



Category: Captain America (2011), Iron Man (Movies), Warehouse 13, X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-11
Updated: 2012-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:19:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StolenBlueBox/pseuds/StolenBlueBox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of an artifact, and the people who made it one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hero's Gun

**Author's Note:**

> Preface: I am a technology geek, and mechanical devices fascinate me. One of my frequent geekiness focuses is guns. Since I don’t know what you know and what you don’t: An artifact is an item that, through incredible force of will and repeated use, is given a piece of the people who used/interacted with it. Logan and Captain Hewlett are different names for Wolverine. Howard Stark had a rarely mentioned brother, I put his age at about +20 Howard.

Logan signed up like it was the next big dance. War wasn’t glorious, it wasn’t beautiful, it wasn’t something he needed to do to become a man. He’d been there. He knew there was no glory to be found and nothing beautiful either. And he was already a man. War was just what you do when you can’t die. All he wanted to do was get away from her.

He’d signed up as an adventurer, so he didn’t have a lot of training, just a lot of tests. They gave him everything he would need and made him memorize every single detail, from the style of fold for his cot to the thread count of a sheet. He’d treated it all seriously but studied under gritted teeth, chewing away at a cigar. One particular item they gave him was a pistol. Model 1911, serial number 19143592-ColtCmT. .45 caliber pistol rounds. Nine in the clip, plus one in the chamber. He filed it in his memory just after how to order more socks and just before the serial numbers of his meal packets.

Logan was born for this. He’d had decades of battle experience. So when they set up their lines, Logan became the quarter back. And his Hail Mary’s were legendary.

His team was four of the scrawniest, wimpiest little idiots who had ever signed up for war. In many cases, their families had moulded them in to the “global war, glorious war” mentality. They were shaking and scared and far from home. None of them would quite leave the same. But all of them would leave. 

They were all Americans. Logan had proven himself with his regiment during the first few battles. He couldn’t fight too hard, lest his powers be shown, but he showed great valor in rescuing others despite sustaining several wounds. He was considered a great asset and lent to the Americans like a trained dog or a piece of equipment.

Michael Liewtz was the first sad soul he was convinced would finally give him a reason to die. Even in training, he never really learned to quit. He never learned anything, to be honest, and had many times nearly been killed by trying to pull the trigger and having the clip fall of the bottom. That was the equivalent of a chef who picked his steaks off of the floor and throws them back on the stove.

Trump and Mark Likers were from downtown Chicago, and thought of themselves as young gangsters. Their families had, along with their neighbors, thought sending “the boys off to war” was an “american thing to do”. They were very patriotic, though certainly thick.

Edward Stark was another story. His brother was some big hotshot and had given him all of these fancy ass toys that he kept using. These grenades of light were really effective at letting Logan get up close, a range he was deadly at. But he was annoying as hell. Logan had no patience for drunks (partially because he could never get drunk) and was constantly angry about the state of Edward, who had brought several cases of alcohol with him.

His little group of warriors knew about his mutation, and about the claws. One of them had witnessed it, and after a discussion as to whether or not they thought he was the devil, they all decided that either they wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt or they wanted to survive badly enough not to care.

Edward kept talking about how he was going to be a doctor. Michael was impressed but the Likers brothers were stupid and brash and didn’t see the value in fixing bullet holes yet. Stark was brash, as well, and vein, so they managed to laugh a lot. Logan stayed on the side and sipped from his canteen while they joked around, never really joining in but occasionally chiming in when he felt comfortable enough to.

The Likers brothers were best described as “lead chuckers” at best and “fucking morons” at worst. Their simplicity was something Logan kept check of most of the time. Much like pawns or rooks they proved simple but surprisingly useful. Edward was more of a fix and mend person. He wasn’t quite capable as a soldier, he spent a lot of time ducking behind cover, but he’d saved everyone else quite a few times. Liewitz was dangerous in the fact that he was useless. 

They’d been taken on to Gallipoli, and had managed to be one of the last holdouts before the Turks had overwhelmed them. Liewitz was the first problem. He’d run out and shot, using the quick-lining trick Logan had (stupidly) taught him. A bullet hit his shoulder. He fell backwards. Trump and Mark, covering him, walked out the door. Their ridiculous Tommy Guns managed to wipe out the Turks they could see. 

They let the Tommy’s fall on their slings as they ran out to help. Mark was useless, he just kept repeating the phrase “oh shit” with his head in his hands. Trump, at least, put pressure on the wound, something Liewitz had nearly slapped him for but something that was saving his life.

Stark ran out with his med kit. He had made some major advances in trauma therapy equipment, and he knew he could be of some help. He was going to be a doctor some day, after all.

And right at that moment, over the hill came the Turks. Nine of them, rifles trained on Ed. Ed froze, not knowing what to do. They had the drop on him, but maybe he could fake being a medic. He put his hands up. Trump and Mark, being dumbass gangsters, reached for their guns. The Turks opened fire.

There are certain moments which can leave a little mark on the things they touch. Wolverine popped around the corner. His focus was pure, his intent to save his team. In his hands, that stubborn little pistol with ten rounds. In his moment of pure instinct, he didn’t even need to think. His aim was pure and he could just barely see their movements, like he could see into the future by seeing where they had been. He saw, clearer that he ever had, things that would help him. Pulses were highlighted. He didn’t have to think. All of them dropped, one by one.

He ran over to Mark and Trump. They both had multiple new little holes through their body, but stubbornly they could walk as far as they would have to. The other two Logan had to carry on his back. It wasn’t terribly far, just two miles to their extraction.

That was the first time, but it wouldn’t be the last. Slowly but surely, that pistol took on his nature - to save idiots from the problems they were in. To protect his team.

When the war ended, Wolverine was awarded one of many honors - he could keep his pistol. It stayed locked in the shelves until he went back to war.

Years later, he’d found himself back at war, this time fighting the Germans.

He’d packed up his bags, and like everyone else he looked through the list of requested equipment. He had a few shirts and some pants that would fit the bill, so he packed those. And then he looked at the equipment list. His old pistol was on it. He packed his bags, cleaned the house for the last time, and checked his mail.

Ed had spent the last twenty years going back and forth to the hospital dealing with infections. There was shrapnel in his body that they couldn’t find, tiny pieces they just couldn’t collect, and it kept grinding away as his body. The Stark family curse. So when Ed sent him a letter asking for a visit, he decided to stop by on the way to the boat. Canadian troops were getting sent out of New York at the time, made it easy enough.

Logan walked into the hospital room, puffing away on his cigar.

“You look like shit.”

“You look exactly the same. How the hell do you manage that?”

“Family secret.”

“Funny. Eh, that secret saved my life. I can live with not knowing it.”

“Someone’s grown up.”

“Yeah, a bit. Dying’ll do that to you.”

He pulled out his cigar. “What’s the Doc say?”

Ed laughed, then winced in pain. “No, no, I’m not gone yet, but we can’t all live forever Logan.”

Logan nodded and smirked a sad smirk.

“Which reminds me, I have a favor to ask.”

“What?”

“My brother has a team he’s setting up. I need you to go help him.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Some super soldier drug. I don’t know, it sounds like it’s going to backfire and I want you to be there if he needs someone to cover his ass. I have a feeling he’s going to turn stupid and run into the fight, you know?”

“I get it.”

“So you’ll help?”

Logan put the cigar back in his mouth.

“I didn’t say that.”

Ed looked at him. “So what the fuck is your problem, then?”

Logan took a big drag from the cigar, breathing it out of his nostrils.

“Me and your brother don’t exactly get along.”

“You’ve met him once. And besides, he was really drunk. Give him a chance.”

He looked at Ed. The tip of his cigar glowed.

“Look, with any luck you’ll just be on his team, he’ll stay near HQ.”

He breathed out smoke and looked at him hard.

“And I’ll buy you a case of Cubans.”

He crossed his arms, but his face turned into a smile.

Three years of fighting later, he was on his way to the front lines in a french transport truck, sitting with a new bunch of boys shaking in their boots. The only one who wasn’t scared at all was dressed up in a latex costume with the colors of the American flag. It was all he could do to not laugh.

“So you’re, what, our comic relief?” He said, teeth holding a cigar.

“I’m Captain America.” He said. Logan just stared.

“You’re what?”

“Captain Ameri...”

Logan waved his hand and waved away Steve’s momentum.

They rode on for a few miles in silence, Logan staring at Steve until he eventually burst out laughing. Steve just nodded and smiled the type of smile that should awkwardly diffuse a joke, but Logan just laughed harder.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s very funny.”

Logan nodded in agreement and continued laughing.

“Hey, we’re on the same side.”

Logan gave a slight nod of agreement and slowed to a mellow chuckle.

“So why is your underwear on the outside?” He finally asked.

“The same reason your face looks like you lost a fight with a lawnmower.”

Logan kept laughing for a bit, Steve joined in. They both tried to look out the front and figure out how close they were.

“I don’t see a gun,” Logan finally said.

“I’ve got my shield.”

“... you’re fucking kidding me.”

“What?”

“Have you ever been at war?”

“Yes. But Stark told me ...”

Logan looked him, cold in the face, and with a look cut him off mid sentence.

“You are going to fucking die.”

“What?”

“You. Are. Going. To. Fucking. Die.”

“Howard Stark made it for me. He said it would be enough. It’ll abso...”

Logan shook his head and waved his hand. This kid was going to be the death of him. He looked at his gear. He wasn’t exactly want for firepower, and if worse came to worse he could just use his claws. He picked up his shotgun and handed it to fancy pants.

“What?”

“Take this.”

“No, no, you need that.”

“Kid, I’ve done this before. Trust me.Take it.”

“No, I can’t use my shield with that.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He put the shotgun back across his lap and stared out the window a bit. Suddenly a tank shell exploded outside their window. The truck shook violently. Steve looked up, suddenly a little frightened. Logan was now looking him dead in the eyes, smiling around his cigar. He pulled out his pistol and handed it over.

“Shields don’t kill Nazi’s.”

Steve stared at him a moment before he conceded Logan was right and grabbed the pistol. He gave a nod of thanks. Logan gave him a smirk as the truck screeched to a stop. 

The story continued with Steve. Steve was a hero during World War Two, but this has been well documented. Captain America saves the lives of his fellow soldiers, this much is known.

Captain America didn’t use that pistol on his last mission. He gave it as a gift to Howard Stark, and told him of it’s significance to him, one night over a hard drink behind enemy lines.

Howard brought it to be buried with him but couldn’t bring himself to do it. It had meant so much to Steve, that this thing had protected soldiers, that he wouldn’t want to be buried with it. He set it aside for later.

It remained in a glass case in the front of his office for a long time. It served as a daily reminder that the weapons he was building were saving lives.

Months turned in to years. Computers evolved, times changed, theory and tactics  and war itself changed. Howard Stark’s son inherited the business and his heirlooms. Amongst them was the hero’s pistol. He kept it on the wall. Tony became Iron Man and his weapons evolved. He never thought of the pistol. Eventually, they redesigned his office with the latest in high tech equipment, most of it designed by Tony one drunken afternoon. The pistol, still in it’s case, were moved to Tony’s home, near the back, stored next to a priceless Jackson Pollock and a decommissioned nuclear device.

Tony was getting drunk at a bar frequented by Marines. All of them loved him, and he loved every one of them. A lot of them he would interact with in one way or another, and many can honestly say their ass either had been or will be saved by the Iron wonder himself (a nickname Tony had come up with). So when he was approached by a soldier, he wasn’t surprised at all. In fact, he ordered a round of drinks, on him.

“So what’s your name, sport?”

“Michael Pendeley, Sir.”

Tony nodded after hearing his name.

“When do you leave?”

“I ship out tomorrow night, Sir. Flying to Fallujah.”

Their drinks arrived. Tony ordered the next round and they took the shot together.

“Your suit was kind of interesting. A little low tech but functional.”

“Wow. Suit critique from the Man of Iron.”

“Don’t mention it. So Marines. You’ll probably be using Hammer Industries crap, sorry about that. I tried.”

“We’re not stuck with that. We got some of yours as well. We get to pick from a lot, German, Japanese, American ... there’s even some old M1911’s.”

“Huh. My Dad had one of those.”

“Your Dad was a fighter?”

“Hah. No, he was a lover. No, he wasn’t even that. He was ... complicated. And boring. Drink.” Their shots had arrived. Tony asked the waitress for two more.

“No, no, I can’t, I’m shipping out tomorrow.”

“No, no, no, no, that’s why you have to. Trust me.”

Their night started like that and ended up on his couch. They’d been to four different bars, then Tony had mentioned he’d built a Nuclear Device in college on a dare and they’d ended up in his lab, at which point they found a tequila bottle and decided to continue the night.

The next morning, Tony was awaken by Jarvis to see the Marine already washing his face and getting ready.

“What, slipping out? That’s usually my move the morning after.”

“Yeah, but it’s your house, Sir.”

“... like I said, usually my move.”

He walked to the kitchen. The Marine laughed.

“Jarvis, water me.”

“Do you want me to prepare the shower for you, Sir? Sensors indicate you probably need it.”

“Very funny, just pour me a glass of water.”

The marine looked back at the decommissioned nuke. “I can’t believe you built that in college.”

“Yeah, that was fun. The Feds showing up, not so much, but still. Party all around.”

As the Marine looked over the nuke, his eyes fell on the pistol and it’s plaque.

“... whoa. I had no idea about this.”

“What?”

“That pistol. Quite the history.”

“Huh? That was just my dads.”

“... did you read the little plaque?”

“Yeah, yeah. No. What does it say?”

Tony walked over and read the plaque, his jaw slowly dropping on the inside. “Issued Captain Howlett ... saved countless lives on the front ... medal of honor ... Captain America, huh ... huh. cool.” Tony then looked at the marine, then back at the gun. One of his terrible ideas had taken hold.

“Take it.”

“What?”

“Take it. Go ahead.” He stepped forward and started looking for the hatch to open the container. Not finding one, he looked started to look around the house.

“Sir, I’m honored, but ...”

“But nothing. If you were honored you’d take the weapon from your superior.”

He found a hammer in the kitchen with the silverware. A few seconds later, he’d smashed the glass and taken the gun out, along with the clips that were next to it.

“I’d replace the rounds in there, just in case, but other then that it should be ready to rock and roll.”

The marine still stared at it. Tony grabbed the barrel and held the handle out. “Go be a hero, son.”

The marine nodded.

“Yes, Sir.”

Eventually, he left and went to the airport with his equipment packed into bags. His orders were to fly to Fallujah, and since air travel was now covered and the airports had opened again he could just hop on the plane and fly there, equipment packed into his official packs. SGt. Price arrived about a day later. He was immediately thrown into the frying pan. The truck ride on the way back was hit by an RPG. It flipped on to it’s side and tossed the SGt. on his back. He stood up and immediately began reaching around for his rifle. Half of it was above him, the receiver was below, and the grip was nowhere to be found. He looked around for anything else to grab, and all he found was the bodies of his teammates. Most of their weapons were gone. They were gone as well but he couldn’t think about that right now. There were loud voices outside and they didn’t sound pleasant.

His bag. He grabbed for his bag and dug through the back pocket. The Pistol felt right in his hand, like a jolt of electricity ran up his arm when he touched it.

A man with an AK opened the back entryway. He didn’t even tell his body to aim, it just lifted the pistol where it needed to and pulled the trigger. The man fell.

He walked out of the truck and looked around, gun raised. There was someone alive in the cab, and two men approaching it slowly. Nothing was under his control anymore, but it was working. He just went with it. He knew exactly where to shoot and hit both men with one shot each. The cab door was open. He grabbed the driver out with his free hand and pulled up. The driver was heavy, and his arm was weaker then it should have been, but still he managed to get the man up once he’d put his pistol away, which left him with a strange feeling. He was back in control again. The Humvee that had been in front of them had pulled over and the troops were on the ground, shooting at the windows.

“How many did we lose?”

“I’m the only one alive.”

“Oh, fuck. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

They loaded into the Humvee and left for the base.

Weeks later he was settled in more. They’d replaced most of his stuff, but (mostly thanks to his rather impressive performance on day one) they allowed him to use the M1911 every day.

His team was fiercely loyal and incredibly stupid. They managed to nearly get him killed on a daily basis, but they usually managed to save his ass. Usually.

One day, they were looking through a crowded market in front of the embassy. Hard guard duty. They were standing around weapons holstered. Price had lent his rifle to the new guy, who’s own Hammer Industries rifle weapon had failed him miserably.

It was the new guy who spotted the man walking straight for the embassy with a large coat on. He squeezed the mic button on the collar around his neck. “Uh, guys? Check out the guy with the coat.

Price saw him and pulled out his pistol. Yet again, that feeling took over. He saw the man, but more importantly he saw what he was hiding. And he wasn’t going to let his mates get hurt.

He sprinted towards the suicide bomber. The man didn’t see him until he connected. It was about fifteen meters to the nearest window, but he managed to grab the man and drag him that far. They were out the window before the man had the wherewithal to grab the remote control and push the button. It detonated outside, in an empty alleyway.

Price’s death was announced over the radio, and his efforts were rewarded with the Medal of Honor postmortem. When the announcement for his Medal of Honor crossed Tony’s desk, he took a moment to steady himself. Then he suited up and flew to Fallujah.

Being in suit gets him past most security. He just strolls up to the morgue to find his commander there.

“General Tyson?”

“Ah, Iron. How did you know him?”

“He was a friend. We met before he shipped out.”

“He was one of my best. Did you hear how it ...”

“Yeah.”

They stood there in silence for a moment, looking at the body with a sheet over it.

“He left something for you.”

“What?”

“He left you his gun.”

“Oh.”

The General pulled out the M1911 and held it up to the metal behemoth. He looked down, the iron face hiding something rare: Tony choked up for a moment.

He reached out and grabbed the pistol, then put it in a storage pocket in the right leg of his suit. “Thank you. I have to go.”

And with that, Tony left.

Tony had never carried a gun in his day to day life. He always viewed them as “quaint,” weapons for people who didn’t know about anything better. But after he was given the M1911, he carried it behind him. There was something about having it there that made him feel better. Maybe it was the ghost of SGt. Price, maybe he was turning into a sentimental old drunk. But something about it resonated with him. Told him to do his best and to save everyone.

Tony went about his life like it was normal. There were parties and meetings and ambassadors and weapons demonstrations, and as usual he spent most of his time in the garage at home working.

Two weeks later he was at a UN arms meeting. Signing a deal was the security chief of the UN, the heads of the armies of China, America, India, and Russia (respectively). Everyone was getting ready for a new era of peace.

Then three men with guns walked in and opened fire.

Tony should have reached for his suit. He should have called in a satellite-based missile and surgically killed each of them. But he didn’t. He grabbed the pistol, and immediately he lost control of his body. It just knew what to do. He stood up, pistol in hand at the ready.

When it was all over, Tony could barely put the pistol back he was shaking so much. Fear, an extraordinarily rare reaction from Tony, was all he could feel. He didn’t know what to do. The paperwork was delayed for another day and Tony left in his car, speeding off like a maniac.

Two hours later he’d driven from New York to DC. Outside the city, in an air force base in Maryland, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s hellicarrier was on the ground refueling. Tony got through gate security quickly and sped to the Hellicarrier. Nick Fury had heard of his entrance from the gate security and was on the ground waiting for him. Tony skidded to a stop a few feet from him, Nick maintained his traditional cocky cool.

“Nice car, Mr. Stark.”

“Yeah, it’s great. I need a favor from you.”

“And what would that be, Mr. “I don’t work for you” Stark?”

“You need to take this.”

Tony took out the pistol and handed it to Nick.

“What is it?”

“It’s a gun.”

“You drove all the way out here to give me an old pistol?”

“It’s a gun, but it’s not a gun. But it is. It makes you do things.”

Nick laughed. “Gun’s don’t kill people, Tony.”

“I’m being serious here. There’s something about that, I don’t know. It’s got a pretty lengthy history.” Tony launched into it - how it had been in one hero’s hand after another, how all of that added together must have done something he didn’t understand, how he couldn’t control himself at the UN. Nick listened, with growing concern.

“I think I know what to do with this. Give it to me.”

“So wait, what is it?”

“I can’t tell you. Just trust me.”

“Right. Because I trust everyone.

Nick gave him a cold stare. Tony handed him the firearm. He grabbed it with a gloved hand and put it in his pocket. Tony smiled and hopped back in the car.

“You can owe me for that.”

“What?”

Tony sped off. Nick shook his head and headed over to arrange a private helicopter to South Dakota.

 

 

 

“Claudia!” Arty was screaming at the top of his lungs.

“What’s up, Doc?” She responded, typing away on the computer.

“Oh, there you are. Thought you were in the Warehouse.”

“Nope. Mucho worko. Boring-o worko.”

“Ok. Great. Then you can handle some more.”

“Of ... course. Hold on, let me go call my life and tell it I won’t be seeing it for a while.”

“Excuse me? What life?”

“... valid point, oh bald one.”

Arty scoffed. Claudia smiled as she took the work off of his desk.

There was a knock at the door, followed by a buzzing in the control room. Claudia looked up at Arty. “Someone’s at the door? Girl Scouts maybe?”

Arty looked at the camera. Nick Fury was staring back at him. Arty’s eyes opened wide and he hit the open door button. Nick walked down the hallway quickly.

“Claudia, go find something to do elsewhere.”

“What? Why?”

“... too late. Just be quiet.”

Nick Fury walked through the door.

“Mr. Fury, what are you doing here?”

“Call me Nick, Arty. After that thing in Moscow, I owe you.”

Arty relaxed. “Oh, ok. Well, what can we help you with, Nick?”

“I have something for you.”


End file.
